


House Dies

by outruntheavalanche



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Afterlife, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Not!Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:53:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: The pinnacle of light stretched out, until it was like looking down a long white corridor.How fucking cliché, House thought.





	House Dies

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in a pile of unfinished fics and thought I'd upload it. I don't remember when it would have taken place but it obviously would have happened before Amber died.

House walked into the exam room and scrutinized the patient sitting on the table. He was older, and overweight; quite possibly, House mused, the man was morbidly obese. The old man tapped the heel of one foot nervously against the exam table’s leg when House entered, and flicked watery blue eyes at him.  
  
“Mr. Parkinson?” House tucked the man’s file under his arm and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “What seems to be the problem here?”  
  
“My eyes won’t stop tearing up,” the man replied, and House’s shoulders stumped.  
  
“That’s all?” House sounded almost disappointed.  
  
The man nodded, confused. “Well, yes,” he said. “But they won’t stop – running. Could there be a problem with my tear ducts?”  
  
“Possibly. Have you been tested for allergies?” House gritted his teeth, trying his best to keep his acerbic wit at bay. He had hoped to get off to a good start today. Mr. Parkinson and his runny eyes weren’t helping.  
  
“Yes, I have. But it can’t be allergies. I’ve never had any,” the old man insisted.  
  
House sighed. This man was going to be a chore. He glanced at Parkinson’s files, feigning a bored yawn. “Have you been experiencing any other symptoms?” House asked, in a flat monotone that he hoped would convey how bored he was with this man and his insignificant ailment, if you could even call it that.  
  
Parkinson opened his mouth to respond.  
  
House made a face and flexed his fingers; it felt as if he’d dipped his hand into a beehive and grabbed a handful of angry drones. His fingers tingled and buzzed.  
  
“You okay, doc?” asked Parkinson.  
  
House nodded. “I’m fine. Haven’t had my morning shot of espresso yet.” House flipped a page of Parkinson’s file.  
  
Parkinson shifted, the material of his shirt rubbing against the paper that had been laid out over the exam table. The frictiony sound caused House to wince. “You look a little peaked, doc.”  
  
“I’m fine – ” A sharp, burning pain ripped through House’s chest and he staggered, his wooden cane clattering to the floor along with the patient’s files. The man’s eyes bugged out as House lurched forward, unable to find steady footing.  
  
House groaned and clutched a hand over his chest, knees buckling, and sank to the tiled floor. Mr. Parkinson gawped at him, mouth working open and closed like a fish. _Do something, you moron_ , House wanted to shout at him, but the thought couldn’t quite make it all the way to his mouth.  
  
The pain burned excruciatingly, tearing into his heart. It felt like a red-hot poker had been stabbed into his chest. House wouldn’t have been surprised to find a metal poker sticking out of his chest.  
  
“Dr. House?” the idiot asked. “Are you okay? Should I call for someone?”  
  
House looked up at the man on the exam table, hand clenching onto his chest. “Cuddy,” he managed to find enough of a voice to rasp. “Get Cuddy.”  
  
House collapsed on his back on the floor. The back of his head hit the linoleum with a thump and for a second, House saw stars. He couldn’t see anything of Mr. Parkinson, however, couldn’t see whether or not the man had gathered enough wit about him to call for help. He heard a pattering of feet, though, and the creaking of the door.  
  
House thought he could hear Parkinson yelling something, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. Everything sounded as if he had his head held under water, now, blurry and blending into one droning sound.  
  
There was a flash of blinding light then, and House blinked. His heartbeat thundered cavernously in his ears, and it was a reassuring sound to him. He managed a smile. Then, the comforting lub-dub of his heartbeat began to slow.  
  
House tightened his hand over his chest.  
  
The pinnacle of light stretched out, until it was like looking down a long white corridor.   
  
_How fucking cliché_ , House thought.   
  
A ball of white light grew larger, warmer, beckoning to him to join it – where, House had no idea. House relaxed the fingers clutched over his chest and flexed them, stretching out his hand toward the light.  
  
He could hear the echoing of footsteps and voices. The light urged him closer.  
  
“Clear!”  
  
A shock rippled through him and the chambers of his heart remained cold, silent. House approached the light, his bare feet sinking into – sand? House was confused; he hadn’t expected sandy beaches when he finally kicked the bucket.  
  
“ – not responding! Clear!”  
  
House moved closer to the light, and the light grew larger to welcome him. He felt warmed over completely. Another shockwave rippled through him, and again his heart refused to beat. The movements at the end of the golden hallway grew more frantic, fuzzier.  
  
House smirked, turning fully toward the light.  
  
***  
  
Wilson leaned over Amber’s peacefully sleeping frame and picked up the receiver, holding it to his ear. He paused a second to rub the grit from his eyes with the heel of his hand before answering.  
  
“James Wilson speaking – ”  
  
“Wilson.” It was Cuddy. She didn’t let him finish. “ It’s House.”  
  
The hairs on Wilson’s arms stood at the tone to Cuddy’s voice. She sounded rushed, panicked. “Cuddy? What’s wrong?” Wilson settled back on his side of the bed and swung his feet out from under the covers. He fumbled his feet into the fuzzy slippers he’d left at the side of the bed the night before.  
  
“House is – ” Cuddy paused to muffle a noise on her end, and Wilson wondered if she was crying. “He’s dead.”  
  
Wilson sank back into the pillows, gripping the receiver tightly in his hand. “Cuddy, I don’t understand. What are you saying?”  
  
“He collapsed in Exam Room 1 – he was tending to a patient – and he never woke,” Cuddy said, the battle over her emotions evident in her strained tone.  
  
Wilson stood and flipped on the light. Amber groaned in her sleep and flung an arm over her face; Wilson looked over at her and sighed. He didn’t have the heart to wake her. “I’ll be right down,” he said quietly, padding over to his closet and pulling a shirt off the hanger. Wilson paused. “Who knows?”  
  
“Just you,” Cuddy said, dragging in a weary sigh. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”  
  
Wilson nodded pointlessly at the white dress shirt in his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”  
  
Cuddy sighed again. “I was wondering if you’d like to tell his team. I felt they should hear it from you, since you and House are – ” Cuddy stopped herself. “Since you two were close.”  
  
Wilson shrugged the shirt over one shoulder and switched the phone to the other ear. “I’ll be right over, Lisa.” Wilson pulled the shirt on completely and began to button it, trapping the plastic receiver between his ear and shoulder. “Take care of yourself in the meantime, okay? We can talk some more once I get there.”  
  
“Okay,” Cuddy said, sounding tired beyond her years. “I’ll see you then.”   
  
She hung up and Wilson finished buttoning his shirt. He pulled a pair of dark jeans from the bottom of his closet, the only clean pair available to him, and stepped into them, tucking in his shirttails and zipping up his pants. He glanced back at Amber, still sleeping soundly.  
  
Wilson set the phone back in its cradle and opened the nightstand drawer beside Amber’s side of the bed, pulling out a pen and a pad of paper.  
  
Wilson scribbled a hasty note and folded it, tucking it under her pillow. Wilson pressed a kiss to her forehead and was gone.  
  
***  
  
When Wilson entered the building, he found Chase sitting in the waiting area, his head down and his arms crossed over his knees. Chase’s hair fell into his face, but he made no attempt to push it out of the way.  
  
“Chase?” Wilson sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, lightly.  
  
Chase looked up but didn’t turn to face Wilson. “I couldn’t save him,” Chase muttered, unevenly, voice so near the breaking point it made something in Wilson ache. “I – I just couldn’t save him. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Wilson said quietly, giving Chase’s shoulder a light squeeze. “The coroner says he had a massive heart attack. There’s nothing you could have done for him.”  
  
Chase looked over at Wilson then, and for the first time, Wilson saw how wracked with grief – and guilt? – Chase was. “It’s my job to save people,” Chase said. “I’m a doctor. I’m not supposed to let my patients die.”  
  
Wilson sighed, keeping his hand firmly over Chase’s shoulder. “There’s nothing you could have done for him.”  
  
Chase sighed and closed his eyes, shrugging away Wilson’s hand so that he could sit back. “I – I know. I just wish there was something, anything I could’ve done.”  
  
Wilson heard the clicking of high heels before he saw Cuddy; that was usually how he could tell she was approaching. He looked up to see Cuddy walking toward them. Her face was pale and drawn, and her hair had been thrown into a messy pony-tail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and Wilson could tell that she’d been crying for hours.  
  
“James,” she said, and Wilson could feel the pain in her voice. Her grief was palpable and overwhelming. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
Wilson stood and put his arms around her, letting her press her cheek against his shoulder. He patted her hair and gave her a squeeze, let her drop the façade of Dr. Lisa Cuddy for a moment to just be House’s grieving friend. “I know,” he said. It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could manage. _What did you say when something like this happened anyway_ , Wilson wondered, as he rocked Cuddy against his chest.  
  
“He died almost instantly,” Cuddy whispered, pulling away from Wilson and lowering her head. “He couldn’t’ve known what hit him.” It sounded a lot more like Cuddy trying to convince herself that was fact, rather than actual fact, but Wilson let it pass.  
  
Wilson nodded, slipping his hands away from her shoulders. “Who else knows?” he asked.  
  
“His team will be coming in shortly. They don’t know that he’s died. They only know there’s been an emergency,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. She flicked her uncertain gaze Wilson’s way. “Will you be up to telling them?”  
  
Wilson nodded, sticking his hands into his pants pockets. “I can do that.”  
  
Cuddy offered him a weak smile. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm before moving past him to console Chase.  
  
***  
  
House opened his eyes and looked around. He’d been expecting Heaven to be more, well, Heaven-ly. He saw no pearly gates. He didn’t see any other dead folks either. In fact, it looked just like the exam room at Princeton-Plainsboro.  
  
House cursed. He’d died and he didn’t even get into the good part of Heaven. Maybe this was where caustic assholes went.  
  
House sat up carefully, putting a hand out to feel his surroundings. He curled his fingers in a paper covering; he was on an exam table.  
  
 _Maybe I’m not really dead_ , House mused to himself.  
  
“Sorry to break it to you, Greg. You _are_ dead.”  
  
House looked toward the direction the voice had come from. A figured draped in shadow stepped into the light. “Who’re you?” House asked.  
  
“I’m in charge of your – case, shall we say,” the figure said.  
  
House tilted his head. The strange figure looked to be his very own doppelganger – except with a stuffy British accent and five days’ worth of facial hair. “You’re me,” House said.  
  
“Not quite. I’m in charge of your account. Call me Bill if you wish,” House’s look-a-like said, tucking a clipboard under his arm. “It’s not my real name, but it’s easy to remember.”  
  
“And what’s your real name?” House asked, kicking his feet.  
  
“My real name is much too complicated for mere mortals to pronounce. The sheer power of it would cause you to melt into a puddle of goo.” Bill crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
“I’m already dead,” House said, with a smirk. “How bad could it possibly be?”  
  
***  
  
Chase sat silently in the waiting area as nameless, faceless people swarmed about him, along with the walls and the ceiling and the floor. Every time Chase opened his eyes, colors and blurred faces circled him like water swirling down a drain. So he just didn’t open his eyes.  
  
He’d been the first one on the scene when House’s patient called for help. He’d found House lying on his back, his good leg curled underneath him awkwardly. His eyes were open and staring glassily at the ceiling fixture. Chase knew then that they’d lost him, but he still tried. He would always try.  
  
Chase called it in at 7:15 in the morning.


End file.
